


But If You Close Your Eyes Does It Almost Feel Like

by pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Best Song Ever verse, M/M, Oral Sex, Tattoos, ambiguous office setting, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcel’s not sure what the draw is for Louis, but he finds himself looking forward to it, glancing out into the hall several times an hour to see if Louis might be walking by. Louis is just -- he’s magnetic, like he’s got his own gravitational field around him, and it makes Marcel’s stomach jump around nervously just being around him, but it only takes him a few days to realize how much he <em>likes</em> that feeling, the hitch in his chest he gets when he spots Louis across the office and smiles at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But If You Close Your Eyes Does It Almost Feel Like

**Author's Note:**

> in no universe was this ever, _ever_ meant to be anything more than a quick sexy thing, so obviously it turned into 13,000 words of feelings. i don't know what to say for myself. i guess mostly [this](http://24.media.tumblr.com/24d9a6789cab475d1297821079c06eeb/tumblr_mqfynlqHig1rpr239o1_r1_500.jpg)?
> 
> thank you to lane for telling me to write it in the first place and then reading it.

Marcel hadn’t realized Louis knew who he was in the first place, honestly.

Or, like, he must, sort of, because Louis answers the phones, and not _many_ people call Marcel at the office -- or not at the office, really -- but it happens, sometimes, and Louis always patches them through happily, his voice sweet and sharp in that way that makes everyone want to talk to him, want to linger at his desk even when the candy dish is empty. He says Marcel’s name like it’s a bit of a question, and then rings off, leaving Marcel to speak with the rare client who has questions for him. So Louis must know there’s a bloke called Marcel, and that he gets phone calls only fleetingly, and that his office is in the back, barely more than a cramped, walled-in corner without any windows. There’s no way he can’t know that much, at least.

He also nods and smiles at Marcel when he gets in in the mornings, and when he leaves at five. Louis is always at his desk in reception when Marcel arrives, arranged behind the sleek glass of it, the company’s name gleaming in slim gold letters behind his head, and he always looks -- unreal. That’s the word Marcel forces himself to think. Even at just gone eight in the morning Louis is always immaculately put together, all crisp collars and smart jumpers, his hair artfully arranged into a deliberate swoop on top his head, and Marcel can’t figure out how he gets it to stay like that. He can’t figure out how Louis can show up in a floral-patterned shirt that clings to his shoulders and stomach one day and a sleek charcoal jumper the next and always looks so put-together, so much like himself. It’s _unreal_ , Marcel reminds himself forcibly, not _beautiful_ or _breathtaking_ , because those sort of words mean -- _things_ , they mean things, and really, it’s just that Marcel can’t wrap his mind around looking so put together any time, let alone before his first cup of tea. Louis makes the tea for the whole office every morning, and he does it perfectly every time, so Marcel waits to have any until he gets to work.

That’s what he tells himself.

So Louis must know there’s someone called Marcel on the payroll, somewhere near the back, and he must know Marcel’s face, his oversized glasses and nervous, halting smile when Louis grins and nods at him twice a day. He just doesn’t think Louis has put them together, the name and the face both.

It’s a big office, and they’ve never really talked, so Marcel can’t see why he would.

-

Except it turns out that he has, apparently, which Marcel finds out on the day the office kettle breaks. 

There’s a soft knock at his office door just after ten and Marcel jumps. His most recent round of paperwork isn’t due to his supervisor until tomorrow, but he immediately panics, thinking he must’ve gone and mucked up the dates, confused about what day is which, maybe, and he’s already frantically trying to come up with a lie, or at least some graphs he can hastily print off to disguise how underprepared he is, when he finally looks up and sees Louis, leaning against the door frame of his office, smiling brightly at him.

“Marcel,” he says in that way he has, the way that sounds like a smile no matter what his face is doing. “Hey.”

“Marcel?” Marcel repeats. He fumbles for something -- anything -- just for something to do with his hands, and grabs his stapler, for no clear reason. “I mean,” he corrects. “Marcel is -- me, yes.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, still smiling easily, but he crinkles his eyes in a funny little amused way, just for a moment. “I know.” His voice this close up is smooth and scratchy all and once and Marcel thinks it’s a bit like a blanket, one he wants to wrap up in, even though the thought immediately feels wrong, because if Louis’ voice is a blanket, it’s one of those posh, expensive wool ones, the sort that are too nice for Marcel by miles.

“Dunno if you saw, but the kettle’s broke,” Louis tells him. He crosses his arms over his chest easily, drawing the fabric of his striped gray shirt tighter and looking for all the world like he’s exactly where he belongs. Marcel assumes Louis would probably look just as at home on the moon, probably.

In any case, Marcel does know about the kettle -- he’d gone to fetch his tea earlier and left disappointed after seeing a hastily-scrawled ‘out of service’ note stuck to the side of it, his own mug dangly sadly from his hand as he’d trudged back to his office. He hadn’t realized how much he’d looked forward to Louis’ tea until it’d been denied him.

In lieu of saying that, however, he just nods.

“I was going to go down to the shops and round some up if you’d like any,” Louis offers.

“If I’d like any?” Marcel repeats. He knows he should know what those words mean together, but he’s suddenly flummoxed.

“Any tea,” Louis clarifies, still smiling.

“Oh! Oh.” Marcel coughs out something that he hopes sounds like a laugh and not an oncoming asthma attack. “No, I mean, I wouldn’t want you to, like, go out of your way.”

“It’s exactly my way, mate, I’m going anyway. There’ll be a mutiny out there without any soon, I’m sure of it.” He sort of laughs at himself, shrugging all easy-going and simple.

Marcel just shakes his head, though, and tries to breathe in through his nose and remember his manners. “No thank you, Louis,” he says politely. “Really, I don’t want you to trouble yourself.”

Louis just shrugs again, and Marcel expects he’ll go at that, but he stays, still leaning on the doorframe.

“D’you know, I don’t think I’ve ever been in your office before,” Louis says conversationally, leaning his head in further and glancing around. He looks interested, like there’s something more to look at besides a few cheap, leaning bookcases and Marcel’s meticulously arranged desk, his pens sorted by color in two different containers. There’s not even a window, and scarcely any personal items. His degree from uni is framed, but it’s still leaning on the bookcase. Marcel had thought about hanging it up on the wall, but it’d felt awkward -- he couldn’t figure out who he was meant to be showing it to.

“It’s not, uh.” Marcel swallows around the dry, self-conscious feeling in his mouth. “Much, I mean.” He sort of points around, like Louis can’t see it for himself and needs to have it pointed out to him. “It’s actually the smallest one, I think, or it looked like it when I was looking at the floorplans?”

He grimaces at himself, because Louis probably doesn’t need to know that he just goes around looking at floorplans sometimes, just out of curiosity. And anyway, he realizes, it sounds like he’s complaining about having an office in the first place, and Louis just has a desk stuck out front, nowhere to hide or shut the door when things get to be too loud and too _much_. Marcel immediately feels guilty. “Not that I’m, uh, _complaining_ ,” he says. He sets down the stapler he’s still pointlessly holding.

“It’s nice,” Louis assures him. “Cozy, innit?” He smiles bright and wide, and Marcel clutches at the edge of his desk, because all of a sudden his brain wants to know what Louis’ teeth taste like.

“That’s a word for it,” he says weakly instead. He can feel his eyes darting around nervously, and focuses his attention down at his desk, biting his lip a little.

“Well,” Louis says, shoving away from the doorframe gracefully. “I’ll let you get to it. I’ll bring your tea.” And then he’s gone before Marcel can point out that he asked him not to bother bringing him tea in the first place.

-

Louis is still at his desk when Marcel goes to leave at half six, even though he’d stayed later than usual, sifting through a messy pile of backlogged files and sorting out what he could make of it into an email to two of the other departments. It had wound up being twelve pages in length, so he’d had to hang about to edit it down to something reasonable, and it’d suddenly been after six without his noticing it happening.

On his way out of his office, he grabs the empty paper cup that Louis had brought his tea in earlier -- Marcel had fumbled in his desk looking for money to pay him back when he’d brought it, and Louis had refused, laughing, but not unkindly -- meaning to throw it out in the staff kitchen as he goes. But when he reaches reception, and sees Louis still sitting at his desk, typing at something in a bored sort of way, he realizes he’s still clutching the empty cup in his hands.

He hurriedly drops it in the bin beside Louis’ desk, and the noise of it makes him look up. Marcel straightens his sweater vest instinctively.

“G’night, Marcel,” Louis says, nodding at him once with a smile that seems somehow different from his usual one.

Marcel’s tired. His eyes have gone fuzzy a long while ago, and his back is stiff from hunching awkwardly at his computer, and when Louis says his name like that, he forgets all about those things, forgets to cringe about the fact that it’s raining and he’s forgotten his umbrella again -- forgets everything that’s not Louis, smiling up from his desk like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

-

The next morning, Louis is on the phone when Marcel arrives at work, so he doesn’t smile or wave, distracted and frowning a bit at whatever’s happening on the line, but when Marcel gets to his desk and reaches for his own mug he finds that it’s gone, replaced by another steaming paper cup of tea from the same shop as yesterday, his name scrawled on the side in marker with a smiley face next to it.

He’s distracted the rest of the day, and feels both thrilled and guilty about it in turns.

-

Veronica is perched on the edge of Louis’ desk when Marcel gets in the next day, the long line of her legs crossed elegantly in front of her in a way that makes Marcel feel like choking, just a bit. It’s not uncommon for her to be there, she and Louis are clearly -- _friends_ , or something, Marcel doesn’t know. They’re together often enough, he knows that much, Veronica lingering around the front desk or the two of them sharing lunch, their heads bent together as they talk before she’s called into her own bright, glassed-in office for loud, important meetings.

Not that Marcel watches, them, or anything, he just -- he has to walk by reception twice a day at least, so it’s hard not to notice. He can’t help it if he’s got eyes, or if those eyes have a very hard time looking away from two such objectively fit people.

He wonders if they’re dating, or, like -- doing _things_. Sex type things. It’d make sense, really, the two most beautiful people he’s seen in ages getting together. They probably meet up after work or in the supply closet or something to talk about how lovely it is to be attractive, and then do -- _things_ with their naked attractive bodies, because why wouldn’t they? Marcel thinks --

He specifically stops himself from thinking anymore on the topic as he shuffles past the desk, trying to keep his head down inconspicuously. He’s sure that they’ll be able to see exactly what he’s been thinking if they so much as glance at his face, every inappropriate thought shining through his eyes, magnified by his oversized glasses.

“Marcel, hey,” Veronica drawls at him, and the silk of her voice nearly makes Marcel drop his bag. “Y’alright?” She smiles and flicks her hair over her shoulder, and a wave of perfume hits Marcel, sending his skin prickling.

“Uh,” he mumbles. “Yes, yep. Fine, cheers.” He clears his throat with a little _hmm_. “And you?”

“Can’t complain,” she says as she stretches her neck delicately to one side, sounding like she means the complete opposite, bored and a bit saucy and mischievous in a way that’s alarmingly alluring. Really, good for Louis, Marcel thinks.

He glances at Louis, and then has to look down at the floor immediately, because if Veronica has set his nerves on edge, the sight of Louis might make his heart beat out of his chest cavity, quite literally. His hair is even more carefully sculpted today than usual, and Marcel’s fingers instinctively want to reach out and touch, see if it’s all sticky and hard where it’s swooped upwards in the beginning of a quiff, or -- and this is what Marcel suspects -- if there’s still a softness underneath, pliant and gentle.

He’s got a navy jacket on over an almost unbearably tight white button-down shirt, and Marcel doesn’t know what’s worse, the slight strain of the buttons over Louis’ chest, or the way the jacket’s sleeves are pressed up to show off the sprinkled lines of tattoos over his forearm and wrist. He tries not to stare, but he knows some of them by heart already, the knot on his wrist and the compass below his elbow. Marcel stares at the ground, focusing on the weft of the steely gray carpet, and forces himself not to prod at his own forearm, to trace the line of Louis’ tattoos on his own skin.

“Morning, Marcel,” Louis says, and his smile is audible, even before Marcel can force himself to look back up from the carpet and see it for himself. “Looking well this morning,” Louis adds.

“Um, thanks?” Marcel mumbles. It’s a lie, obviously, because Marcel looks -- he looks exactly the same as he does every day, wearing the same variation on slightly ill-fitting trousers and a sweater vest he has since he’s started working there. He wants to touch self-consciously at his hair and his glasses, but again forces himself to stay still.

“You’ve got a message and a parcel delivery in your office,” Louis tells him.

“Oh. Thanks, uh, again?” Marcel desperately wants to think of something to say besides ‘thank you,’ but they’re suddenly the only two words he seems to know how to put together, so he clings to them like a life preserver.

“No problem,” Louis says with a smile, smaller this time, like it’s just for Marcel. He smiles back, trying to mimic it, easy and close all at once.

He rearranges his bag over his shoulder and starts to walk past, but pauses, because even if his heart is beating far faster than is necessary for a standard morning greeting between coworkers, he remembers his manners. “And thanks for getting me tea, by the way,” he mumbles to Louis in a rush, feeling even more self-conscious under Veronica’s stare, which is direct and unblinking. After a moment, though, she turns to Louis and raises her arched eyebrows meaningfully at him, looking surprised and a bit suspicious.

“You’re running around getting teas now?” she asks him, a sharp teasing tone in her voice. “Funny, I asked for one yesterday and I’m pretty sure you told me to piss off.” She shoves at Louis’ knee and he shoves back at hers, almost sending her flying off the desk as he hisses something under his breath at her, and Marcel takes the opportunity to start slipping quietly down the corridor.

“You’re welcome,” he hears Louis call when he’s a few feet away. He doesn’t turn back, and tries to hold back his smile until the door to his office is shut behind him.

-

Louis shows up in his doorway of his office again the following week, even though the tea kettle is working again. He doesn’t wait for Marcel to invite him in, just knocks and then swoops through, crossing the small space to lean his palms against the opposite side of the desk.

“Have you had lunch?” Louis asks. He kicks one shiny boot across his other ankle effortlessly, his hip cocking out a bit. Marcel tries to imagine how the gesture would look if he tried it -- not effortless at all, he knows. Probably something would wind up knocked over. Himself, likely. He crosses his own ankles underneath the desk anyway, painfully aware of his own sensible shoes.

“I packed a sandwich,” he says, and immediately blushes, feeling the pathetic sound of his words curl up his neck, making his ears tingle in embarrassment. He’s not sure what else he ought to have said, but it still feels like he’s given a wrong answer anyway.

Louis just wrinkles his nose. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

Marcel frowns and shrugs. He’s not sure what’s supposed to be _exciting_ about lunch. 

“Have you eaten the same exact sandwich at least one other time this week?” Louis asks, pressing on. He’s idly poking around a pile of Post-It Notes, and even though he’s shoving them out of their assigned spot, Marcel feels strangely unbothered by it.

“I... guess so?” he answers hesitantly. It feels a bit like a trick question.

Louis’ nose wrinkles even further, and it makes him look like a disapproving chipmunk. Marcel wants to squirm around, but can’t quite explain why.

“That’s horrible,” Louis says, like Marcel’s just revealed there’s been a death in his family rather than the fact that he’s had two ham and cheese sandwiches this week. “Fancy going somewhere with me? I’m on my way out.”

He says it so easily, so thoughtlessly, that Marcel’s stomach cramps for a moment. “Why?” he blurts out without meaning to.

Louis smiles that curious smile at him again. “Why am I having lunch?”

“No, I mean, like.” Marcel fumbles. “Why do you want me to come?” He genuinely can’t think of what the answer might be.

Louis looks at him like the question is absurd, and maybe it is, but Marcel still can’t figure out the answer. “Why wouldn’t I?” Louis asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

-

He’s not sure the exact sequence of events that get them there, but an hour later he’s sat across from Louis on the patio at a cafe down the street, trying to remember what to do with his hands. It must be _something_ , he’s had hands his entire life and always managed to put them _somewhere_ , but it’s suddenly become an impossible task. At least when their sandwiches arrive he has a script to follow -- hold sandwich, chew, try not to choke.

Louis is apparently suffering no such issues, because he gestures as he talks easily the whole time, with Marcel, but also with the waiter and a woman walking by with her dog. The whole thing is more than a little baffling to Marcel, but he thinks he holds his own all right, nodding at the right places and managing to string together multiple sentences. That’s more of a success than he’d anticipated, honestly.

When he’s done eating he rests his hands on the surface of the table, folding them politely on top of each other so he can’t fidget with them too much. But it must catch Louis’ attention because he stops talking mid-sentence, narrows his eyes curiously at Marcel’s hands, and before he can react, reaches over and grasps at Marcel’s wrist.

“Marcel!” Louis crows, voice pitching up with delight as he yanks Marcel’s hand closer, looking at it intently. “This isn’t real, is it?”

With a self-conscious jolt, Marcel realizes he’s talking about the thin black letters tattooed across his wrist, the ones that are usually covered by the cuffs of his shirts but that are now on display, his sleeves shoved up to just beneath the ditch of his elbow. He feels his cheeks blush, and knowing he’s going all red just makes it worse, makes him blush harder. It’s like a perpetual motion machine of embarrassment.

“It, um. I guess so?” Marcel answers. He’s not sure what will be worse, pulling his arm away from Louis like a self-conscious child or leaving it where it is, the warm press of Louis’ fingers firm around his wrist, pressing in around the tattoo like a frame. He stays still, letting inaction make the choice for him.

“You _guess_ so? D’you not know?” Louis teases, smiling at him in that way he does sometimes, like Marcel’s said something funny without knowing it.

“No,” Marcel protests. “I know. It’s real. I just, um.” He falters. “No one usually sees it.” He wants to shove his sleeve down over it because it’s too much, too much of himself on display, but Louis still has his wrist held solidly in his hand.

“You’ve got some surprises, haven’t you?” Louis asks, gazing at him directly, and it makes Marcel squirm nervously. He doesn’t know what to say -- he doesn’t think he does, in particular -- so he says nothing.

Louis finally looks away, squinting down at their hands, and Marcel knows he’s reading the words -- _I can’t change_ \-- possibly more than once, because he looks longer than he needs to.

“You can’t change, huh?” Louis asks when he finally looks up, still touching Marcel at the wrist. His voice is just a bit quieter now. “What, like into an elephant or something?”

Marcel chokes out a surprised laugh, the force of it taking him unaware, and he should probably feel self-conscious, like Louis is making fun of him, but he doesn’t. It feels startlingly normal, Louis teasing him like this.

“I mean. Not that, either? I can’t, um. Change into an elephant. But also just like...” Marcel casts around, trying to sort himself out. “Just in general.” He shrugs.

For an instant, just a brief instant, Louis’ thumb drags softly across the soft skin of Marcel’s wrist, tracing the words from left to right as if he’s reading them in Braille, the silence around them only interrupted by the noise of the cafe, forks clinking on plates and ice rattling in glasses.

“I know what you mean,” Louis says finally, gently setting Marcel’s hand back on the tabletop.

-

Marcel’s not sure how it happens, but he somehow behaves fairly close to the way a normal human being might through the rest of lunch. Louis has to take a call from his sister part-way through, which lets Marcel take several deep breaths to calm himself, and when he gets back, Louis mentions something about the analysis reports Marcel’s been working. That’s a topic he knows, that he can actually talk about fairly confidently, and it’s probably not the most interesting conversation Louis has ever heard, but he at least nods and pretends, which Marcel is eternally grateful for. The whole thing feels startlingly more normal than Marcel could have imagined it ever might.

When they get back to work, Louis refuses to let Marcel back into his office, dragging him bodily into Veronica’s instead.

“Did you bring me anything?” she asks in a throaty, distracted voice when Louis bursts through the door, not bothering to look up from whatever she’s typing on her computer. “I’m fucking starved.”

“Nah,” Louis says, slumping into one of the two chairs across from her desk. They’re fancy and chrome, just like the rest of her massive office, and nothing like the dingy brown one in Marcel’s own, so he stands awkwardly, out of his element more than he wants to admit even to himself. Louis just yanks him easily by the wrist into one of the chairs, though, like it’s exactly where he belongs.

“So why’re you here?” she asks, glancing up. “Hi, Marcel,” she adds. “You didn’t bring me any food either, I suppose?”

He shakes his head, perplexed. He hadn’t know he was supposed to, and feels a bit guilty for not realizing.

She sighs disappointedly, sparing a moment to glare unimpressed at Louis, but she shoots Marcel a small smile before turning back to her work on the computer.

“I have _information_ ,” Louis tells her proudly. “That’s even better than food, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says blandly.

“It _is_ ,” Louis insists. “Did you know that Marcel -- our dear, sweet little Marcel -- is actually a dangerous tattooed bad boy?” He grabs Marcel by the wrist yet again, his small fingers deftly pressing up the cuff of Marcel’s shirt so that the words peek out.

Marcel immediately goes pink, feeling his chest tighten, because he hadn’t realized he was going to be put on display like this. He wants to protest, but Louis is thrusting his arm across the desk, trying to show Veronica the words etched there. “Isn’t that fantastic?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve seen it,” she says, a bit unimpressed. “It’s nice, though,” she tells Marcel.

“You have?” Louis asks, sounding outraged. Marcel doesn’t respond, but he’s just as surprised -- he hasn’t any idea why that’s something Veronica might know about him, unless she’s like... seen him with his sleeves up washing out his tea mug at the end of the day, or something. He casts his mind back, trying to figure it out, but Louis is still talking, working himself up into at least semi-feigned outrage. “You knew Marcel had a secret tattoo and you didn’t tell me? Veronica, I thought we were _friends_ ,” he pouts, dropping Marcel’s arm. He curls it back into himself cautiously.

“Me too, but you didn’t bring me any lunch, so.” Veronica shrugs one slim shoulder, sending her black hair cascading down onto the swell of her chest. Marcel looks up at the ceiling.

“Go get one of your minions to do it, you’ve got loads of ‘em,” Louis says easily, kicking a toe against the edge of her desk so it vibrates. “This is important! What other secrets have the two of you got?”

“It wasn’t a _secret_ ,” Marcel mumbles, hoping it doesn’t come out too squeaky. “I just -- didn’t know you’d want to know?”

“They’re not minions, they’re _interns_ ,” Veronica corrects disinterestedly.

“Marcel,” Louis tells him seriously, ignoring Veronica entirely. “If there’s anything you should know about me, it’s that I’m _incredibly_ nosy. I want to know everything.”

“Everything?” Marcel asks, trying to disguise the drum of his heartbeat that he’s sure must be audible by now.

“ _Every_ thing,” Louis agrees, nodding. “So what else? Surprise piercings in indelicate places? Secret criminal life as an arms dealer?”

Marcel blushes. “Nothing like _that_ ,” he protests.

“But there are other secrets, then,” Louis says, like he’s gotten Marcel to admit something. He flushes. He thinks of some things he could tell Louis, things that might surprise him a bit as well, but -- but Louis is probably just being polite, he reminds himself, and bites down on his tongue. Louis just carries on looking at him interestedly, though, eyes sparkling in a way that Marcel can’t tell if it’s wonderful or a bit terrifying. Probably both. Whichever it is, he can’t get himself to look away from it.

“Can you _please_ go flirt somewhere else?” Veronica interrupts. “I’m working. That’s a thing people do in offices sometimes, in case you didn’t know.”

Louis just throws his head back and laughs, the sound of it taking up all the air and leaving none for Marcel’s lungs as he tries to sputter an apology for interrupting and an explanation -- _flirting_ , really -- all at once as he blushes.

“You’re booking a flight for you and your boytoy to go on a sex holiday to Spain, you liar,” Louis says cheerfully. “I can see it in the reflection of your stupid glass wall. What’s this one’s name again? Arthur? Steven?”

“Get out,” she says, looking unbothered. “And you know it’s Liam.”

Louis smacks himself on the side of the head dramatically. “Ah, yes, the people’s hero, Liam. How could I forget? He’s _unbearably_ fit,” he says to Marcel. “And he saves babies and puppies from fires for a living. It’s sickening.”

“Only babies and puppies?” Marcel asks stupidly. _Is that, like, a particular kind of fireman you can be?_ he wonders.

“Probably adults too,” Louis admits, “but that’s less exciting.”

Marcel turns this information over in his head carefully. So maybe Veronica and Louis _aren’t_ doing... things, not if she’s got a firefighter called Liam. One that Louis has described as unbearably fit, no less.

“Please leave immediately, I swear I’ll call security,” Veronica says again, but there’s a smile curling on the corners of her red lips.

“Fine, alright,” Louis sighs, rising from the chair and offering a hand to Marcel. He stares at it for a second, because he’s forgotten what to do in a situation like this, but then finally takes it, letting Louis pull him up bodily from the chair. “We have a sense for when we’re not wanted, right?” he asks Marcel.

Marcel has no idea what to say, so he nods.

“You actually haven’t in the slightest,” Veronica calls to Louis as they go. When they reach the door Louis settles his hand on the small of Marcel’s back, guiding him through first. “Be good,” he hears Veronica says cryptically, and Marcel’s instinct is to turn back and tell her that he will be, even though he hasn’t got any idea why she’s telling him that, but then he realizes she’s saying it to Louis, her eyes narrowing meaningfully at him, and he closes his mouth.

“I always am,” Louis says, grinning so his sharp teeth show. It comes out a bit lewdly, and Marcel’s tie suddenly feels very tight around his neck.

“Yeah,” Veronica says darkly from behind them as they go, “that’s what I’m worried about.”

Marcel never gets the chance to figure out what she means by that.

-

It goes on like that, Louis badgering Marcel into having lunch with him, or letting him bring him a tea, or just lounging around Marcel’s office when it’s slow enough at the desk for one of the interns to cover the phones. He folds himself into the tattered brown chair sat on the opposite side of Marcel’s desk like he belongs there, knees drawn up to his chin sometimes, folded in half like an origami swan.

Marcel’s not sure what the draw is for Louis, but he finds himself looking forward to it, glancing out into the hall several times an hour to see if Louis might be walking by. Louis is just -- he’s magnetic, like he’s got his own gravitational field around him, and it makes Marcel’s stomach jump around nervously just being around him, but it only takes him a few days to realize how much he _likes_ that feeling, the hitch in his chest he gets when he spots Louis across the office and he smiles at him.

When Marcel leaves on a Friday evening, Louis is at his desk like usual, and Marcel’s set to wave and smile -- he’s mostly able to accomplish both those things without his heart starting to race by now -- but when he gets close he realizes that something’s off. Louis has the pad of his thumb pressed into his temple like he’s trying to massage away the edges of a headache, and he looks -- washed out, more subdued than usual. He’s typically so vibrant and charming that the shift is jarring enough to throw Marcel off a bit, and he pauses in front of Louis’ desk.

Louis glances up and smiles, but it’s forced, not nearly reaching his eyes. “Heading out?” he asks wearily.

“Yeah,” Marcel says. “But, um, are you all right? I mean,” he amends. “You don’t have to tell me, you just seem--” He’s not sure how to finish that sentence in a way that’s not at least vaguely insulting, though, so he doesn’t.

“Long day,” Louis says, still trying to force a smile. “Long, crap day.” He shrugs, like he’s trying to shake it off of himself bodily. His shoulders stay slumped, though, so it must not work.

Marcel nods sympathetically, and he’s all set to apologize and say goodnight, but instead what he says is, “Would you maybe want to go get a pint?”

Louis cocks his head at him, and Marcel hears himself carry on talking, mostly involuntarily. “That’s, like. A thing people do. When they’ve having crap days,” he explains, probably unnecessarily. “So we could, um. Get one. And you can complain about your day to me, which will probably also make you feel better. If you want to.”

Louis is quiet long enough that Marcel’s stomach starts to knot up until he’s regretting asking. Of course Louis wouldn’t want to -- surely he’s got proper mates for that type of thing, doesn’t want to spend his evening with some strange bloke from work. He’s about to open his mouth and apologize for asking in the first place when Louis lets out a sigh, shaking his head a bit dazedly.

“That’d be fucking _brilliant_ ,” he says, and if Marcel’s eyes can be trusted it looks as if Louis visibly relaxes a bit at the prospect. “Seriously, if you’re free, let’s go immediately, because if I have to sit here another second I might bash my skull in with a stapler.”

“Oh,” Marcel says, surprised. “Don’t do that.”

“Smuggle me out of here at once and I won’t have to,” Louis says seriously. In an instant he’s got his computer shut down and his jacket and bag slung over the crook of his arm, Marcel still reeling a bit from the sudden jump from words that had come out of his mouth mostly without permission to an actual _plan_. “Cover me,” Louis hisses, brightened tenfold already as he ducks behind Marcel’s back, pretending to hide from someone as they stumble towards the lifts like a spy. Marcel thinks it’s a spy, at least, although he’s not quite sure, because there’s also an accent involved, and a lot of conspicuous jumping around. Whatever it is, though, it’s got Marcel grinning, unable to stop.

-

“So Lottie’s threatening to shave her head, texting me about how she’s ‘misunderstood,’ and my mum’s ringing my mobile and crying and asking how to get Lottie out of the toilet, where she’s apparently locked herself, and meanwhile--” Louis interrupts himself to drain nearly half his Carlsburg in one go, setting it back on the wooden tabletop with a thunk -- “Mr. Smith’s yelling in one of my ears, Veronica’s yelling about _him_ yelling in my other, and the computers in the finance department are still down and no one’s got any e-mail, and somehow _literally_ all of these things are my fault, and it’s just...” He trails off, dragging his finger around the rim of his pint. “It’s a lot of things to deal with all at once, especially when you’ve been up half the night panicking about how you’ve forgotten to pay your heating bill _again_.”

“Wow,” Marcel says, and he means it. He hasn’t got any idea how Louis can handle so many things at once and only wind up looking mildly perturbed -- if it’d been Marcel he’d have locked himself in a cupboard and refused to come out. “Is that -- is it usually like that?” he asks.

“Pretty much,” Louis says, shrugging. “Usually mum and the girls don’t give me _quite_ as much of a headache, or at least they wait until I’m off work to do it, but apparently this was dire, so.” He rolls his eyes, and even through it Marcel can see how fond he is of his family. “Mum gets so stressed, though,” he continues. “And I try to help, but I’m so far away, and whenever I send money she returns it, but she _needs_ it, and I just--” He cuts himself off again. “Sorry, this must be sickeningly dull for you to hear about.”

Marcel goggles a bit. Louis could literally read the dictionary out loud, he thinks, and it’d still be fascinating, because everything Louis does is, somehow. And this -- Marcel might not have any insight or advice to offer but it’s still wonderful to hear Louis talk to him like he _might_ , like he wants Marcel to see these little pieces of himself.

“You could probably never be boring,” Marcel admits, cheeks flushing even as he says it. “Even if you tried.”

“I could so,” Louis protest, a smile in his voice like he’s taking it as a challenge. “Absolutely I could. Would you like to hear extensively about the filing system I’ve implemented at work? It involves a lot of cross-referencing. And color-coding.”

It intrigues Marcel anyway, even though it’s meant to be a punchline. “Sure,” he says, “go on.”

Louis makes that face again, the one Marcel is starting to recognize as the one Louis saves for him, a bit baffled and pleased all at once, like he’s struggling to balance an equation but inexplicably enjoying the process.

-

After two more pints that Louis pays for, they stumble out of the pub onto the street, which is dark and shimmering as a thin sheet of cold rain comes down on them.

“I always forget my umbrella,” Marcel says idly, more to the air around them than anyone in particular.

Louis makes a noise like _tsch_ , something scolding and fond, and unfolds his jacket and pulls it up over them, leaning in close to Marcel and tenting it over their heads, the rain tapping out a staccato on top of it. Marcel swallows heavily, the pints sitting heavily in his stomach, and pulls at his collar, because it feels close and sweet and lovely this close to Louis, hidden from the rain, and he can’t bear to think of moving, but isn’t sure how to stay there, either.

“Where shall we go?” Louis asks with a smile, and Marcel tries not to feel crushed under the weight of the possibilities.

-

Louis lets himself into Marcel’s flat. It isn’t surprising, really, because Louis had let himself into Marcel’s office as well earlier that day, not bothering to knock, and just his life in general, never waiting for an invitation. It’s probably a good thing, because Marcel knows he probably wouldn’t have invited him, no matter how badly he tried to pluck up the nerves to do it -- something about Louis has always made it even harder for him to arrange words, even more difficult to sort out the tangle of what he means and how to say it, which is usually enough of an ordeal.

So Marcel is grateful that Louis is the one who lets them in, plucking Marcel’s keys out his hand with a laugh at the front door, grateful that Louis was the one to suggest they go there after the pub in the first place. He’d said it easily, huddled under his jacket in the rain -- “Is your place near here?” -- like it’s something they do all the time, and when Marcel had nodded, nervously but still sure enough to nearly send his glasses flying of his face, Louis has smiled and hailed a taxi in seconds, rattling off Marcel’s address to the driver as Marcel whispered it to him like he was translating something from a foreign language. He’d opened the door himself like he’d done it a thousand times before, and now he’s in Marcel’s flat, and Marcel never wants to let him out again, even if he feels a bit like being sick with nerves at the same time. It feels like lightning, like if Marcel blinks it’ll all be gone in a flash, and the conditions will never align properly for it to strike the same place again.

“Do you, um,” Marcel starts, shutting the door behind them and shuffling into the kitchen. He feels suddenly out of place even though he’s in his own home. “Do you want tea? Or, gosh, are you hungry? I’m sorry, I haven’t got much --” He cuts himself off and casts around a bit frantically. There’s got to be something he can offer, but ridiculously, the only thing he can think of is offering to let Louis use the toilet, and that seems like it’s probably not the sort of thing you offer to new houseguests.

“Nah, I’m alright,” Louis says brightly, either totally unaware of how Marcel’s twisting himself up or just ignoring it. Whichever it is, it loosens the tightness in Marcel’s just at least incrementally. “Just too knackered to get a train yet,” he says, and he kicks off his shoes and pads in his sock feet to the sitting room, flopping on the couch and helping himself to the remote. He puts on a football game between two teams Marcel can’t identify, even with the three-letter abbreviations in the corner of the screen.

“Oh, wicked,” Louis murmurs to himself, “didn’t get to see this one. Want to watch for a bit?” He glances up at Marcel from his own couch, face wide and open and happy. Marcel tells himself he can do it -- if Louis is this comfortable, there’s no reason for him to be knotted up so tightly. He nods jerkily and then leans down to untie his own shoes, setting them carefully in a line next to the door before walking slowly over to the couch and sitting down, leaving a full cushion’s worth of space between the two of them.

Louis immediately hauls his legs around and tucks his toes underneath Marcel’s thighs. Marcel thinks his heart stops beating for a moment.

“I like your flat,” Louis tells him, looking halfway at the game and halfway at Marcel. “It seems like you.”

Marcel glances around, feeling a small frown crease his forehead as he tries to see what Louis does. It just looks like -- like his flat, like normal, like nothing. There’s the sofa and the telly and the small kitchen, all neat and uncluttered and in perfect order. There are two pictures in frames, one of his mum and one of his sister, and more books in neat stacks, and that’s about it.

“If you say so,” he nearly whispers, and tries not to focus on the soft flex of Louis’ toes wiggling idly happily underneath his thigh as the match goes on.

-

Marcel wakes an hour later, and he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until he does. His glasses are shoved off the end of his nose, dangling weakly by the one arm still tucked behind his ear, and when he shoves them back on properly, he nearly has a heart attack, because Louis is curled up beside him, his chin tucked up on his knees as the postgame prattles away on the television.

“Hi,” he says to Marcel. “Nice nap?”

Marcel feels himself flush. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. You probably want to go, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep,” he babbles, the surrealness of Louis Tomlinson still being in his flat, sitting easily on the couch, not a dream or hallucination at _all_ sending him into a tailspin. He’s probably been waiting around for ages for Marcel to wake up, wanting to leave but being too polite to sneak out while Marcel sleeps pathetically next to him.

“Nah,” Louis says, shaking his head. “I mean, if you _want_ me to go--” 

“No, you could, uh. Stay,” Marcel says carefully. There’s a twinge in his neck and his right hand is tingling, pins and needles from sleeping with it at a strange angle. “If you want. Please.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Louis says, quietly. He’s closer to Marcel now than when he’d fallen asleep, perched on the next cushion, and there’s something so lovely about the sight of him, lit up in the soft yellow of the lamp as the rain taps away outside, that Marcel can’t stop from smiling.

“Something funny?” Louis asks, smiling back.

“No,” Marcel says, quiet and firm around the smile he can’t swallow down. “It’s, uh. I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice.” It feels like a risk to say it, but in the unfamiliar, thrilling sort of way that he’d nearly forgotten about.

“It is, isn’t it?” Louis asks. He’s leaning nearer, at that, letting his fingertips creep slowly across the sofa toward Marcel, cautious but purposeful like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. Marcel could shift, just an inch, just incrementally, and Louis wouldn’t be able to reach him, but he doesn’t. He stays put, and lets Louis trace over the knee of his trousers for a moment with his fingers, leaning in nearer and nearer until he can feel the soft puff of Louis’ breath on his face. And then Louis can’t lean in any closer, because he’s kissing Marcel, not tentative at all, just steadily, happily, and it’s the easiest, most terrifying thing in the world for Marcel to lean into it and kiss back.

“Okay?” Louis asks, pulling back after a moment. He’s so _near_ but they aren’t touching anymore, and that feels like a loss, so Marcel nods fervently, and then gathers himself up and crosses the small distance between them himself so they’re kissing again.

Louis makes a soft noise of surprise against Marcel’s mouth, but then redoubles his efforts, pressing more firmly into Marcel, opening him up underneath him. He repositions himself in Marcel’s lap, kneeling against the slim line of his thighs and kissing, all soft lips and sharp teeth and his insistent tongue, but after a bit he pulls away, and he looks a bit frantic in the eyes, sort of undone.

Marcel can’t put much effort into trying to name the expression on Louis’ face, though, because his mind is spinning, frantic, worried that Louis might stop, worried that he won’t.

“Here, c’mere,” Louis whispers, shoving off Marcel’s lap a little unsteadily and standing above him, offering a hand. His shirt is askew, uncharacteristically rumpled, and Marcel does as Louis says, gives him his hand and follows his tugging hand towards the back hall of his flat.

“Bedroom?” Louis asks, the circle of his hand tight around Marcel’s wrist as he guides him through his own flat. Marcel’s not sure if he’s asking for directions to the right door or for something more nebulous, something like permission, but it feels like both.

Before he can overthink it, before the doubtful voice in the back of his head that he’s so, _so_ tired of can chime in and second guess it all, he nods firmly, pressing into Louis’ hand and aiming them towards his bedroom door. As soon as he does he feels lighter in an instant, and while his heart doesn’t stop pounding madly, he feels calmer than he has in ages.

Louis is on him more insistently as soon as the door closes behind them, kissing into Marcel’s mouth more frantically, fitting his warm hands under the hem of Marcel’s shirt and jumper, untucking them from his trousers. “Is this--?” he asks breathily, gripping at the edge of Marcel’s stomach, dragging frantically over the planes of it.

“Yes, um, yes please,” Marcel agrees, nodding his head a bit wildly. Louis sighs happily and leans in, pulling off Marcel’s jumper and carefully starting to work the buttons of his shirt from the bottom up.

Marcel’s hands move forward on their own, and before Louis can undo half the buttons on Marcel’s own shirt he’s mimicking the movement, tugging at the hem of Louis’ shirt. “Can -- off?” he asks, blushing a bit at how incomplete it comes out. But Louis nods hastily and drops Marcel’s shirt to pull his own off in one swift motion, so when he drops it on the carpet around their feet his hair is mussed a bit. As if he’s caught in the momentum of it, Louis moves his hands down to the fly of his trousers, hesitating for just a moment before he works them open, wriggling them down his thighs and stepping out of them. He straightens up when he’s finished, standing in just his pants with his feet firmly planted in the carpet, glancing up at Marcel through his mussed fringe like he’s waiting to see how Marcel reacts.

Marcel doesn’t mean to stare, it seems impolite, but Louis is -- he can’t even name it. Breathtaking and golden and nearly glowing, even in the dark. It leaves Marcel absolutely speechless, which isn’t so unusual, but Louis is quiet as well, and that is, a bit. Marcel expects him to say something, but he just smiles almost _shyly_ , which is possibly the most perplexing part of it all. Before Marcel can sort it out, though, Louis is pulling him back in by the untucked ends of his shirt, kissing him again as he finishes undoing the buttons with his deft fingers.

Marcel feels Louis press his open shirt off of his shoulders, letting it pool around their feet with Louis’ clothes, and then he pulls back for a moment. Marcel waits, expecting Louis to lean in and kiss him again, but Louis is suddenly frozen.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, pulling back from Marcel’s chest to look at him, really look, peering at the lanky stretch of his chest in the moonlight that’s coming through the window. Marcel immediately knows what he’s looking at, and wants to hide his face.

“There’s _more_?” Louis asks disbelievingly. He reaches out tentatively with his forefinger, and then he’s softly tracing the organic curves of the tattoos on Marcel's chest, the moth and the birds and the scrawled letters and waving banners. Marcel can’t think of what to say, his insides gone all gummed up in an instant, so he says nothing.

“Like,” Louis breaths out carefully. “A _lot_ more.”

His hand falls away and then he’s just looking, staring and not trying to disguise it, and it makes Marcel feel like an insect, like he’s been pinned wings open and he’s being examined.

“D’they mean anything?” Louis ask quietly.

“Um,” Marcel says. His chest feels tight, and he thinks of his inhaler resting in the cabinet in the bathroom like a lifeline. “Some of them. Mostly just, like, um.” He doesn’t know how to explain it, because he’s never had to before. “Things I like. Things I want to remember.”

Louis stays silent, just gazing at him, his hips still bracketed up against Marcel’s as he leans back to look.

“No one’s seen them,” he croaks out after an interminable minute, just to fill the conspicuous silence. He instantly regrets it -- he doesn’t know why he’s told Louis that. There’s no reason that’s something he needs to know, but there it is. He wants to cover himself back up again.

Louis leans back and peers at him curiously, a frown tugging at his eyes and his lips. “What?”

“I mean, um,” Marcel hedges, because he wants to end this conversation before it goes anywhere else. He can’t figure out how, though -- he can only plow forward and hope a rogue asteroid hits London suddenly and interrupts them. “Like, I’ve seen them, obviously,” he says.

“Obviously,” Louis agrees, sounding distracted.

“And the bloke who did them,” Marcel says desperately, hoping to stumble on the right words himself. “But that’s... that’s it, I guess.” He shrugs, hunching his shoulders in like he can hide that way.

“That’s a shame,” Louis whispers softly, and then his finger is back, tracing the lines again like he’s not sure what to make of them.

“What--” Marcel starts, pushing his glasses up his nose for something to do while Louis touches him, light as a feather.

“I know they’re like, uh, a lot,” he gasps out. If Louis wants to go, if this is too much, Marcel wants to make sure he’s got an out for it. “If you don’t like them--”

Louis’ finger is still. “Don’t _like_ them?” he repeats, his voice sounding strained.

And Marcel is about to say something else, anything, because why _would_ Louis, why would he like them at all, he should’ve _known_ , but then Louis is shoving Marcel backwards on his bed, onto his pale blue pillows and hospital corners tucked in tightly, and it’s the same place he sleeps every night but all of a sudden it’s foreign, like he’s having an out of body experience, like he’s floating off somewhere new, because Louis is crowding him up near the headboard and his mouth is on him, hot and pressing kisses down the line of his throat and onto the tips of the birds.

“What even _are_ you?” he feels more than hears Louis mumble into his chest.

“I don’t -- I’m just me?” he whimpers, confused and too hot and too cold all at once under the press of Louis’ mouth and fingers.

“You’re not _just_ anything, all right,” Louis says, biting down a smile. “You’re --” He leans down and kisses at Marcel’s ribs, thin skin that Marcel hadn’t known was so sensitive. “You’re _strange_ and _lovely_ \--” He punctuates it with more biting kisses, half sharp teeth and half soft lips, one after the other. “And _surprising_. And Jesus, you’re fit.” He’s got his face buried in Marcel’s hip now, hands clutching at the bend of his waist, and then he’s reaching down to undo the buttons on Marcel’s trousers, the ones he’d pressed this morning so carefully.

“I like you,” Louis continues, pulling slowly at Marcel’s waistband so it folds over, sliding down his belly, “quite a lot.” As he speaks he edges off the bed, pulling Marcel with him by the waist so that Marcel is sitting on the edge of his bed, and Louis is kneeling in front of him, naked except for his tight black briefs.

Marcel physically bites down on his tongue, because his trousers and pants are going to slip off his hips at any moment if Louis keeps pulling at them, but also because he can feel himself starting to ask _why_ , and thinks he oughtn’t. Even if he doesn’t quite understand, something stops him from asking, so instead he tentatively reaches out a hand and carefully cups the sharp cut of Louis’ jaw where he’s still pressing his lips against his hip, letting his thumb catch on it. He’s already kissed Louis, already put his hands across Louis’ chest and now Louis is perilously close to his obvious erection, but this feels like _more_ , close and intimate in a way that’s sharp and a bit breathtaking.

“Me too,” he says honestly. “I like you too, I mean.”

Louis smiles up at him at that, nearly beaming in the dark, and Marcel can’t fathom why his face lights up with it. People must tell Louis that always, every day, because how could they not? Louis is bright and funny and beautiful -- he’s got to know it.

“I’d really, really like to suck you off now,” Louis says. It hits Marcel in the stomach like a punch, and he thinks he must whimper, because Louis taps once at his hip, softly, like he’s reassuring him. “If that’s alright with you,” he adds.

“I -- you don’t -- you don’t have to,” Marcel stammers, although now that Louis has said it, it’s opened a floodgate of desperate want in him, crawling across his skin like a fever.

“I _want_ to,” Louis insists, and he pulls one more time at Marcel’s waistband, hard enough that when Marcel lifts his hips up just an inch his trousers and pants both slip down so that his cock is freed, thumping hard and pink against the contracted muscle of his stomach. “Do I have to beg?” Louis nearly purrs.

There’s a strong possibility that Marcel blacks out for a moment, because it’s so -- it’s _absurd_ , absurd for Louis Tomlinson to be offering to _beg to suck his cock_ , absurd he’s here and real in the first place, absurd that he’s currently twisting the fingers of his free hand around Marcel’s, tugging it down and pressing it against his own dick, thick and straining in his pants.

Marcel curls his hand against the length of Louis’ cock instinctively and he shudders in response, his eyes going hazy and purposeful. Marcel thinks he must nod, then, although he doesn't remember meaning to do it, because Louis breathes out sharply through his nose as if in relief, and then leans in close and slowly, carefully wrapping his mouth around Marcel’s dick.

He tries to keep still, but his hips still jerk up to meet Louis’ mouth despite his effort. Marcel starts to apologize, but Louis is humming around him, drowning out the words and sending a vibration through his cock like an electric shock. Louis’ fingertips dig in sharply to the top of Marcel’s knees and he bobs up and down easily, enveloping Marcel in his mouth and his throat, and Marcel thinks he’s never felt anything so extraordinary, not ever.

He loses track of time so that he can barely fathom how long it’s been before he feels a tightening in his stomach, although he distantly suspects it’s probably not long at all, and he tentatively reaches out a hand to thumb Louis on his jaw, accidentally grazing over the seam of Louis’ lips stretched around him as he does. Louis moans at the touch, and that’s nearly it for Marcel.

“I’m, um,” he tries to warn, but Louis just lets his eyes flutter shut, sucking Marcel down even more feverishly. He groans again when Marcel comes, and it nearly drowns out the sound of Marcel’s gasps as he shoots hot down Louis’ throat, his brain fuzzing out. It takes several long moments after that for Marcel to hear anything except the beating of his own heart.

“Jesus,” Louis gasps when he finally pulls back onto his heels, resting his forehead against the inside of Marcel’s thigh. “You’re fucking -- _Jesus_ ,” he repeats.

Marcel just nods, kicking absently so that his legs come free of his trousers tangled around his ankles, because he can’t remember how to say any words at the moment.

Louis takes another audible breath and then clambers shakily to his feet, somehow managing to shove Marcel backwards by the shoulder so that he flops onto his back and pull off his own underwear at the same time. As soon as he kicks them free he’s climbing onto the bed next to Marcel, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him flush against him with a contented noise.

Marcel feels boneless and wrung out and blissfully simple, and for a rare moment he’s not thinking about anything, can’t even begin to think about anything besides the shuddery feeling beneath his skin and curling against Louis, getting him as close as possible. He could stay like this for ages, forever, the panicky chatter of his brain drowned out by how blissful he feels.

But he can also feel Louis shifting against him, and he’s naked and hard and that in itself is too glorious for Marcel to let slip through his fingers. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn't have a plan or a strategy or anything to guide him, but he forces himself to peel away from Louis’ side and prop himself up on his elbow, looking at Louis spread out next to him on his back. Louis smiles up at him, and if it’s possible to be flirtatious after you’ve just sucked someone’s cock, that’s what he is. He stares up at Marcel, long eyelashes casting a shadow in the dim orange light of the streetlamp that’s filtering in through Marcel’s curtains, and then wraps a hand around his own cock, stroking himself at a rhythm that Marcel can’t quite follow, teasing and deliberate all at once.

Marcel bites down on his lip, and Louis lets out a small whine, thrusting up into his own fist a bit more forcefully. Marcel can’t fathom that he’s the one having this effect on Louis, but -- he can’t think of any other explanation.

“Louis?” he asks tentatively, not sure where to put his hands, or if he’s even allowed to. He thinks he probably is, but doesn’t want to presume. “Can I--” He lets his hand skirt close to Louis’ cock, close enough that their knuckles brush as Louis wanks himself, and at the contact Louis’ hand stills, although his chest keeps heaving a bit as his breath comes in sharp little gasps.

“Have you ever--” Louis starts to ask.

Marcel feels his shoulders draw up a bit self-consciously at the question, but he forces himself to look at Louis, nodding truthfully.

“Oh,” Louis says, and his eyes flutter shut for an instant. “I mean, you still don’t have to -- if you don’t want,” he says.

But Marcel does want to, desperately, and he’s not even worried about getting it right, for once, because he just _wants_ , wants to do for Louis what Louis has done for him, in every possible iteration.

“I want to,” he says, and it comes out a whisper, aimed at the patch of bedsheets between them. “I want.” He waits, too unsteady to look over at Louis where he knows he’s gazing up at him. “Do -- do I have to beg as well?” he asks.

Below him Louis makes a noise caught between and hiss and a laugh, and Marcel looks up at that. “Was -- was that a joke?” Louis asks dazedly. Marcel feels himself blush wildly, but somehow he’s smiling as well.

“Um,” he says. “Maybe?” As soon as he says it, though, he realizes it’s not, not really -- he’d do it if he had to, beg Louis no matter how red his cheeks went, because he wants, more than he thought he’d been capable of.

“Yeah, God, yes,” Louis whimpers, and he jerks himself hard several more times before he pulls his hand away, seemingly with a bit of effort.

Marcel flexes his hands nervously but then carefully gathers himself up and repositions himself around Louis’ legs, running his palm experimentally over his cock. Louis gasps. “Jesus,” he rasps out. “I’m -- won’t take long, probably.”

As Marcel leans in and flattens his tongue to lick up the length of Louis’ cock carefully before sucking him down properly, he thinks that’s probably a good thing, because the taste and feel of Louis in his mouth is almost too much to bear. He closes his eyes and lets himself shut down in increments, everything besides Louis, Louis’ cock and his hands and the breathy noises punching out of him, falling away.

When Louis eventually tenses up and pulls out of Marcel’s mouth, shooting off over his collarbones and his chest with a gasp like nothing Marcel’s ever heard before, Marcel thinks he can almost feel it as well, somewhere down in the marrow of his bones.

-

When he wakes up the next morning he’s hot, hotter than usual. His alarm is going off at six o’clock on the dot like it does every day, even during the weekend, because he likes to keep to a schedule -- it’s the best way to keep orderly, he finds, best way to keep structure.

Except everything is out of order when he opens his eyes, because Louis is there, pressed into Marcel’s side, the source of all the extra heat that’s wrapped around Marcel. Louis’ mouth is scrunched against the wiry line of Marcel’s arm, slack in sleep, and he’s got one small hand resting protectively on Marcel’s torso, splayed over the moth like he’s trying to smother it. His legs are kicked out across the rest of the bed, tan skin taking up space that Marcel hadn’t even realized was open until Louis had filled it effortlessly, just like everything else he does.

Marcel blinks once, carefully, trying to sort out the thread that had got them to this place.

After he’d sucked off Louis he’d curled around Marcel like an octopus, only allowing him off the bed to fetch a flannel to wipe them down with. Somehow, Marcel’s heart had only started beating _faster_ when he’d come back to the bed, and it’d taken him an absurdly long moment to convince himself that he was allowed to get in, allowed to snuggle up against the warmth of Louis’ skin. Once he had, though, Louis had just burrowed in closer, pulling the sheets up around them and mumbling that he was staying the night whether Marcel liked it or not. Marcel wouldn’t have been able to protest even if he’d wanted to, and he really, really hadn’t.

But now, in the gray light of morning, he feels the familiar clutch of worry, because this is the part he doesn’t know. He hasn’t got any idea how it’s supposed to go now, now that they’ve -- now that they’ve _had sex_. Marcel forces himself to think it, because he ought to be able to, ought to be able to at least _think_ the words if he’s had Louis’ cock in his mouth not seven hours ago.

Marcel tries to lay very still, partly because he doesn’t want to disturb Louis, but partly because he’s not sure what to do next, either. Should he -- he could make breakfast, maybe? He’s not a good cook, in particular, but he could scramble an egg at least. Or he could run the shower, in case Louis wants to have a wash, or -- or he could pretend to be asleep in case Louis wants to slip out, or he could ---

While he’s figuring out all the things he could do, Louis’ eyes open, and he smiles sleepily up at Marcel. “Hey,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep.

“I was trying not to wake you up,” Marcel blurts out desperately, and he knows it comes out a bit panicked, but Louis just smiles and presses closer to Marcel’s arm. It’s nice, Marcel thinks absently through the wave of his distraction, the way Louis fits up against him so well.

“Would’ve had to eventually,” Louis mumbles. “Work, y’know.”

Marcel’s spine straightens a bit unconsciously. “Work, right.” He’d actually sort of forgotten. That hasn’t happened -- ever. Not once.

In the end Louis lets Marcel make him tea but no eggs, and then presses up on his tiptoes to kiss the hinge of Marcel’s jaw softly before he leaves to go back to his own flat and change clothes. “See you soon, yeah?” he asks. Marcel is still nodding dumbly as the door closes behind him.

As he’s coming up the elevator at work an hour and a half later, he tries not to panic, because it’s a lot to navigate all at once, how he should wave at Louis, or smile, or not smile but wave or maybe the other way round, all while trying to make his feet walk in a straight line. He wants to get it right, wants Louis to know he’s happy about what happened (because he _is_ , he startles himself a bit by realizing, fairly desperately), but give him room if he wants it. He just wants to react -- normally. He’s not sure what that means.

As the lift dings, he resolves to just follow Louis’ lead, whatever it is. At least Louis seems to know what he’s doing.

Louis isn’t at his desk, though, which is curious enough, because he’s almost _always_ there, especially in the mornings when employees and clients are arriving. Marcel frowns, hoping he hasn’t made Louis too late by keeping him around his flat all night, forcing him to take the bus back home before coming into work -- it’s probably mucked up his commute. It would if it was the other way around -- Marcel’s own trip to work is carefully timed.

But as he walks past he notices Louis’ computer is on, humming away, and there’s a mug of tea at his desk and his jumper -- the same one he’d had at Marcel’s last night -- is slung over the back of his chair. So he’s _there_ , he’s just not -- there.

Past the reception area there’s a smaller area for clients to wait in, and as Marcel shuffles past it, puzzling idly, he hears voices coming from it, louder and more strained than they ought to be, especially for so early in the morning. Maybe it’s because he’s done so many things he usually wouldn’t recently, but instead of looking down and hurrying away, he stops, glances down the hall into the small sitting area.

It solves the mystery of where Louis is, at least, because he’s there, and for a moment he’s so lovely that Marcel can’t notice anything else, too distracted by the curve of Louis’ back in the oversized red jumper he must have put on at home. So it takes Marcel a moment to realize that Louis and the shouting voice are all part of the same discordant scene.

There’s a large man in an incredibly expensive-looking suit looming over Louis, and he’s obviously the source of the noise. Louis is holding a cup of tea between them, one he’d obviously brought for the man, but now it looks more as if he’s using it as a barrier, holding it tightly between the two of them. Marcel can immediately see the strain on Louis’ face and in the line of his shoulders as he struggles to smile politely while this man leans in close to his face, still shouting.

“--if it’s such a struggle for you to do your job properly they should find someone who can manage it,” the man is sneering. He’s the picture of absolute disdain, looking at Louis like he’s an insect. “I’d imagine any twat could manage to schedule a bloody meeting, although apparently the ability is beyond _your_ particular talents.” The absolute wrongness of it nearly sends Marcel reeling, because it’s such a foul way to treat anyone at all, but -- but especially Louis, who’s still trying to smile through it even now.

Before Marcel can comprehend what he’s doing his feet are marching him forward, and in an instant he’s beside them, bringing a hand up to Louis’ arm, which is positively vibrating with the strain of trying to keep his composure. “ _Hey_ ,” he says, trying to pitch his voice to sound assertive even though his heart immediately begins beating a frantic rhythm inside his chest. “Is there a problem?”

The man turns to him and sighs exaggeratedly, pulling a face like he’s found someone to commiserate with. “Your secretary--” he starts, voice dripping in condescension.

“ _Louis_ ,” Marcel interrupts, the sound of his own voice surprising himself. “His name’s Louis.”

The man gives him a look like he can’t possibly understand what to do with that information. “Right, well, apparently the idiot’s gone and canceled my meeting without bothering to inform me about it. It takes me an hour to get in, do you realize that?” He directs this last part at Louis again. “That’s sixty minutes of my time you’ve wasted, and another on the way back.”

“Sir, we called and rescheduled last week,” Louis says, his voice sounding frayed and on edge. “I apologize if there was a miscommunication, but I did speak to your assistant. Several times.” He doesn’t sound like himself, all the easy confidence Marcel’s so used to gone from him. Instead he just seems frustrated and embarrassed, like he can’t tell if he wants to shout or disappear through the floors.

Marcel knows what that’s like, intimately, and it turns his stomach to see it written on Louis’ face.

The man doesn’t bother responding to Louis, turning to Marcel instead. “I haven’t got time for his excuses, so if you’d be so good as to find--”

“No,” Marcel interrupts, and the forcefulness of it startles him. “If Louis says the meeting was rescheduled then I’m sure that’s the case. It sounds like you’ll want to speak with your assistant, though.” He desperately wants to reach up and slide his glasses back up his nose, but crosses his arms across his chest instead, hoping it comes off stern instead of terrified.

The man’s expression goes from exasperated to steely, and Marcel can tell he’s about to start shouting at him as well, so he cuts him off before he gets the chance.

“I think -- I think you’ll want to reconsider the way you’re speaking to the staff here,” he says boldly, willing himself not to stutter. “Our President, I think you’ll find she’s rather big on respectful working relationships, and I would hate to inform her that we’ve run up against a problem in that capacity.” He thinks distantly of Veronica, and her foul mouth and tendency to make interns cry, so like, it’s perhaps not _strictly_ true, but he still thinks she’d be murderous if she knew how this arsehole was treating Louis, and the knowledge of it bolsters him slightly, tamps down at least a bit on the panicked, sick feeling that’s creeping up his spine.

He thinks he must have taken the man by surprise because he doesn’t respond, only gapes, a bit fish-like.

“Louis, if we’re done,” Marcel manages to get out, nodding towards the rest of the office, buzzing away behind them.

Louis just stares at him a bit dazedly, like he hasn’t processed what’s going on, but after a moment he nods.

“You can see yourself out, I assume,” Marcel says to the man, and then turns, leading Louis away from the lounge, his feet only a bit unsteady underneath him.

He guides Louis briskly away, further into the office so it looks like they’re heading somewhere with purpose. He wants to glance back, check and see what the man’s doing, but he just keeps walking them forward determinedly until they wind up as far as they can go, in the small kitchen towards the back of the office. When they get there he slumps against the counter, his mind reeling as he tries to sort out what he’s just done.

Louis stands across from him and stares at him silently, a wondering expression on his face. “Where did _that_ come from?” he finally asks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” Marcel apologizes. He feels shaky with adrenaline, and he hopes Louis isn’t upset with him. He hadn’t _meant_ to barge in, and Louis is more than capable of defending himself, it’s just -- he hadn’t really been able to stop himself, really. He’d been on autopilot, acting entirely on instinct, because apparently his instincts now all orient themselves toward Louis.

Louis’ expression goes even more perplexed. “Are you actually _apologizing_ right now?” he asks, baffled. Marcel just shrugs, and then all of a sudden Louis bursts into laughter, actually bending at the waist at the force of it. Marcel looks at him for one bewildered moment and then unexpectedly starts to laugh as well, his tangled-up nerves exploding out of him as he giggles a bit hysterically. 

“Jesus, c’mere,” Louis says through his laughter, grabbing Marcel by the wrist and tugging him towards the door to the nearby supply closet.

“Oh my God,” Marcel says as the door closes behind them, laughing so hard his chest is starting to feel tight. “Oh my God, I’m going to be sacked,” he wheezes, and Louis only laughs harder, pressing them up against a wall of metal shelves as he giggles, leaning his forehead in to rest lightly against Marcel’s shoulder. Marcel’s hand finds Louis’ elbow by instinct and he clutches on as he laughs.

“I can’t believe you just did this,” Louis gasps out.

“I -- me either,” Marcel admits, trying to swallow down his laughter. He feels hysterical and a bit unmoored, and underneath the slight need to be sick there’s something light and pleased, something feeding off the happily dazed way Louis is looking at him.

“ _Thank_ you,” Louis says forcefully, and as soon as he says it, both of their laughter trails off at the same time. Marcel is suddenly acutely aware of how close Louis is to him, standing just between Marcel’s feet, angled into him, the smell of his cologne unexpectedly familiar. It all comes back in a rush, then -- Louis’ hands on his skin the night before, tracing his tattoos, Louis in his flat this morning, all of it, everything filling up his chest with something buoyant and strange in the loveliest way.

“I -- of course,” Marcel says, because it somehow feels that perfectly simple.

“Really, though,” Louis says, softer. “Thank you. People don’t usually -- most people wouldn’t...” He trails off, winds one of his arms around Marcel’s neck and presses up onto his toes to fit them closer together, pressing a soft kiss against Marcel’s lips that’s somehow the most breathtaking thing he’s done yet.

Distantly, before his brain fuzzes out and he starts gasping into Louis’ mouth, Marcel thinks that _he_ usually wouldn’t, either, but -- but he somehow feels taller, feels like stretching out his arms and reaching into the sky to pull down the sun if that’s what Louis wants. _Of course_ , he thinks again, kissing Louis harder, feeling bold in a brand new way. _Of course_.


End file.
